Coming Down
by cute-will-kill
Summary: John's father is a German officer close to Hitler and Hiter's ideal; driven, intelligent, in the army, with blue eyes and blonde hair. Unfortunately he's in love with a jewish born person. As if that wasn't bad enough- in their eyes- it's a Jewish born man. So now Sherlock Holmes is hidden in John's house and he must do all he can to keep his lover safe
1. It Was For What I Flirt

_It Was For What I Flirt..._

: :

John met Sherlock before Hitler came to power; the beautiful man catching his attention completely and utterly. They became friends easily; both of their families rich, influential and highly educated. Where John's was because of many successful military careers Sherlock's was because of the natural genius all the Holmes's shared; many became doctors or professors, all became the best in their chosen career.

The only problem was that they were born Jews. No matter if Sherlock and his elder brother Mycroft had renounced the religion and didn't believe. They were still Jews in the eyes of Hitler and now everyone saw things Hitler's way.

: :

Mycroft was clever; he saw what was coming. He fled Germany for England a year before Hitler rose to power.

Sherlock saw it coming. _Of course_ he saw it coming. He was scared and worried and when Mycroft came into his room one evening and offered him the chance to escape, he almost took it. He was so close to taking Mycroft's outstretched hand and leaving behind this life, the family home and his world.

But a brilliant SS-Head Storm Leader, or _Captain_ as he preferred, and doctor had already crashed into his life.

Quite literally.

: :

They were at a party; some politician had died and everyone was pretending to mourn whilst really focusing on who'd get the money. They were in economic depression after all; at least that was peoples excuse.

Suddenly a warm body was pressed to his and then he was falling hard onto the polished floor grunting and shattering his glass against his hand. There was a solid weight pressed against him, keeping him down and pressing glass into his palm.

"Ouch" he muttered softly trying to extricate himself from under the other person when quite suddenly that weight was removed.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" A tanned hand grasped his upper arm and pulled him up and he saw a welcoming face under a short military cut of blonde hair. Deep blue eyes looking worried and it took him a moment to realise this man was worried for him.

"It's fine..." He gestured with a hand; waving it to show it meant nothing really. Unfortunately this did two things; one, it made his hand hurt like hell and two, made drops of blood spatter onto his and the stranger's suits. "Ah..."

The stranger looked horrified; "Oh! I'm so sorry! Here; let me help. I'm a doctor." He gently led Sherlock to another room to patch up his hand and the other guests, having grown bored when nothing exciting happened, turned back to their drinks and speculations.

: :

John sat in the softly lit room pulling the glass out of the beautiful stranger's hand, and when John said beautiful he meant it and stunning, lovely and striking.

"I really am sorry." He said as he tugged another shard from the taller man's hand trying to be as gentle as possible.

"I've told you its fine."

"But-"

"No. I don't mind."

John bit his lip but nodded "Right."

"Besides you're patching me up aren't you?" He smirked at John leaning in closer, "May I have the name of my doctor?"

John gulped and quickly looked down at the hand he was working on. "My name is John."

"Hello John, I am Sherlock Holmes and it's a pleasure to meet you."

"You landed on a champagne glass, Mr Holmes, how is that a pleasure?" John said before he could stop himself.

"I met you, didn't I?" said Sherlock his eyes dancing with mischief and humour.

"Again Mr Holmes, that doesn't count as pleasant, I fell over and pushed you into a glass." Pointed out John, despite the fact that he was blushing at Sherlock's words.

"Sherlock, please, and it was very nice to meet you John. No matter the circumstances. As, for one, you're very good looking and, for another, you appear to be kind." Sherlock grinned and leant down to kiss John.

John pulls away first moments later. "Err..."

Sherlock falters in his advances and pulls back a short distance to take in John. "I read you right, did I not? You are gay? Or are you bi?"

John gasped "Bi but how did you-?"

"Your eyes, you look at me too long for it to just be a cursory glance of a straight man." A small smirk played around the edges of Sherlock's perfect lips. "May I resume kissing you now?"

John floundered. "But we just met..."

"So? I'm attracted to you, you're attracted to me- or so your body says- so let's kiss. Doesn't even have to be serious, John, come on? Just fun."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes, his beautiful eyes, and nodded.

And with that Sherlock leant forward and kissed him. John let him; he could handle 'just fun' and, if he was honest, he already fancied Sherlock Holmes.

: :

So Sherlock stayed in Berlin when his family, sensing what was to come- deducing another war and somehow realising Jews would be involved- fled to England for safety.

He didn't take Mycroft's offered hand; he refused safety and instead chose love because that's what it had become. He'd fallen in love with a soldier, a doctor, a contradiction.

: :

**Sorry...okay yeah...sorry. I can't even remember how thought this up but I had to write it. We know this chapter is very short but there will be more. Again this will be rated M in future so if you don't like that I suggest you don't follow. If not then please follow and review, we love hearing from you!**

**Also we'll be updating Growing Up Beside You soon.**

**From M and **_**C.**_


	2. You Can't Catch, What's Coming Down

_You Can't Catch, _

_What's Coming Down..._

: :

They lay under the covers curled together, forehead resting on forehead and legs twined. A safe, warm cocoon where they could be together.

_Really _together, not the together other people thought they had where they were just best friends. This was just them, no hiding.

As if reading his mind Sherlock muttered "I hate hiding...this...us; it feels wrong. I want everyone to know you're taken and not to keep having random women throwing themselves at you."

John sighs twisting so his face was pressed into Sherlock's neck and he could breathe in the other man's smell. "I know Sherlie but you know we can't."

"I know but-"

"Doesn't bare thinking about Sherlie; leave it." And with that he shut him up with a soft kiss.

: :

"You have to hide Sherlock."

"I know."

"I hate it."

"As do I; but it is necessary."

: :

"I miss the sun John."

"I know love, I know. I'm so sorry."

: :

"We should go, go to England after your brother."

"It's too late John. You're wanted here; they'll never let you go."

"We could-"

"You know we can't! Leave it be, for God's sake leave it be!"

: :

"You should eat more."

"No point."

"You're too thin."

"It's only transport, John; doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

Sherlock turned his back on John to face the tiny room's blank wall. "You don't matter either."

: :

"Hello. I haven't seen you for two days."

"I...I know."

"Why?"

"I was thinking."

"What about?"

"Everything, John. Everything."

"Alright."

"I...I love you."

"I know."

"And I'm sorry; you matter more than anything."

John rolls his eyes and opens his eyes. "It's fine. Come here you stupid, _stupid,_ brilliant man."

: :

The bottom line was; Sherlock wasn't meant to be kept cooped up in a room for most of the time. It didn't help that the room was so small that lengthways Sherlock could just about fit in a mattress and a stack of books. If he stood and stretched out his arms he could touch two of the four walls. John had painted the walls a dull grey so they wouldn't reflect light back through a tiny ventilation shaft that was Sherlock's only source of light.

On a good day Sherlock hated being there.

On a bad day only John kept him from going completely insane or killing himself.

: :

Blood, mud and freezing cold. His breath came in short, crystallized bursts as he kept pressure on a wound through the soldier's abdomen. He knew the man was going to die, knew he could do nothing, but he still stayed; watching the blood seep between his fingers and the mud caked under his finger nails turn a rusty red.

It was horrifying and humbling and made every emotion in John's body scream. Everything he'd ever felt; whether that be love, loss, hate or serenity was amplified. His mind was full of noise and life. He couldn't stand it but he never wanted it to end, ever. And now he knew how Sherlock felt; he saw everything in these brief moments. Sherlock saw everything but whereas he was able to do it all the time, John had everything unlocked for him now; when adrenaline was coursing through his veins, a man's blood staining his hand, it was so cold everything was frosted even the air and he was surrounded by death.

War was his conductor, just as he was Sherlock's.

: :

He sat in his room all by himself looking at the stacks of food that were arranged neatly by the head of his bed. He left the room once a day for the toilet and not more than that, he wouldn't risk it.

He was waiting though, always waiting.

Waiting to hear gravel crunch outside to hear John's knock on the wall that meant it was all safe; he was sick of hearing it from John's friend Lestrade who was 'house sitting' for John whilst his divorce went through. Mostly it was because he was the only man John trusted enough.

So Sherlock sat and thought and waited and thought and waited and thought.

John said he'd be back in a month; he was needed as an analyst. He would be on the front line for short periods of time because he'd fought to be, called in favours to be. He always said he couldn't stand that his men were dying while he was safe. He hated knowing he could help, that he could patch some of them up.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to point out- for once in his life- that he couldn't save them all; they'd die and, if they didn't, they'd come back broken. That's what war did.

So he thought and waited and thought and waitedandthoughtandwaitedand thoughtandwaited. With it all blurring into one till all he could think of was **John** and all he could wait for was **John**.

And the one thing he never let himself consider was that John could _die_. He couldn't handle that. And he wouldn't let himself consider that John might come back a broken man either; John was strong, John would _survive_.

: :

Screaming and pitch black. It stopped then started again. John couldn't take it but he couldn't stop it. He had no more anaesthetic to give the poor sod. He was already screaming through a leather belt he'd be given to bite down on.

"God! Just knock him out sir, please! The men can't take it and it's not good for moral." Screamed one of the men holding the man down.

"I can't! He said he didn't want that!" John cries as tries to straighten the man's mangled fingers one by one.

"Oh for god's sake! I don't care Hauptsturmführer!" Colonel Moran strides up and hits the man in the head with the butt of his gun.

"Sorry Standartenführer."

"We don't want the enemy to know where we are, do we Watson?"

"No sir."

"And we don't want the troops to believe a demon's being murdered in our trench, do we?"

"No sir."

"Good. I don't care who you're father is Watson, you are here now, you will do as I say."

"Of course sir."

Moran smiled like a wolf before striding away and for one horrible instant John is reminded of Sherlock; of how uncaring he can act, how cold and dramatic.

He shook his head to dislodge that thought. Sherlock was far away from this cold, cold man and safe for now.

John returned to his bloody task, grasping the man's bloody and mangled fingers and trying to get the bones back straight, and pushed thoughts of Sherlock from his mind; he'd be returning soon. And besides; Sherlock couldn't help him here where he was surrounded by mud and the cold.

: :

**So hello again, we know we just uploaded this but we thought we'd give you another chapter seeing as we've had such a lovely response! **

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**From M and**_ C._


	3. You Said You Think I Might Be Alone

John was hideously tired as he staggered into the house and up to his bed. He was bone tired but he was home. Away from the front line for two months. Two months at home.

He fell onto his bed and groaned as he landed on another body.

"What the hell?!"

John grabbed a pillow and shoved it over his head. "Don't shout Greg!"

"You're shouting!"

"Shush Greg. Shush. Long journey. Please shush."

Greg chuckled and moved over for him making space for the soldier.

"And what are you doing in my bed, Greg?"

"Your bed's more comfortable."

John groaned again "Greg! Get out..."

"No."

"Please!?"

"No."

John giggled and said into the pillows; "Sherlock and I have slept in this bed."

"That's what you do in beds, John, you sleep."

"_Slept _Greg."

"Oh...oh God..." Greg jumped up and began backing up.

John giggled uncontrollable and flipped over chucking a pillow at Greg's head. "You idiot Greg. I've washed the sheets between then and now. Unless you and Sherlock...?" John hoped to God that it wasn't true but he had to say it so he kept his tone light and teasing.

"Oh God...oh God no!" Greg was shaking his head and waving his arms in front of him. "No! Oh God...I couldn't...I wouldn't..."

John rolled his eyes and patted the bed. Greg very slowly came over and lay back down next to John. He looked like he expected the bed or John to bite.

"Seriously though, that guy is so devoted to you its scary."

"Thanks Greg."

"No-sorry! I didn't mean it like that! It's just...I don't think he'll ever love anyone other than you. You should hear him. 'When will John be home?' 'John?' 'I wish John was back.' And you should see his room..."

"Why? What'd he do to the room?"

"You'll see."

"What did he do Greg?"

"Night John." And with that Greg rolled over and refused to say any more.

: :

Turns out Sherlock had turned his room into a sort of sketch pad. He had gotten hold of charcoals and chalks somehow and had scribbled notes all over his walls. The black standing out against the grey.

He'd written everything from lists of the elements including their atomic mass and number to passages in Latin. But John's name featured frequently between hydrogen and '_Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.' _To '_How doth the little crocodile _

_Improve his shining tail,_

_And pour the waters of the Nile _

_On every golden scale!...' _and '_Perfer et obdura; dollar hic tibi proderit olim.' _He was shocked and touched.

: :

Greg didn't leave. His excuse was 'it'll be less suspicious and safer if I stay.' John knew that really Greg just didn't want to go home to his wife who had cheated on him before kicking him out.

He didn't really mind; Greg was a nice guy and him and Sherlock seemed to get on reasonably well so in John's eyes he could stay.

: :

John had come home. Home to him. Finally after almost exactly a month John was home. He wasn't alone.

Well he wasn't exactly taking Lestrade into account. In Sherlock's eyes he didn't count because he was an idiot.

John laughed but told him off when he told him that. He told him wasn't an idiot he was a Polizeihauptkommissar. That got Sherlock interested and he began asking Greg endless questions. He couldn't actually help of course, people would be suspicious about why Greg could suddenly solve cases overnight, but he enjoyed getting the facts from Greg and sometimes seeing the files then telling John what he thought. He explained how he came to that conclusion and it seemed to help. He became animated, full of life. He could feel it singing through his blood. He knew that idea was absolutely ridiculous but it felt that way. The endorphins released made him feel happy. Alive.

He kissed John after a case. It was hot and fast. It was delicious. Sherlock could never stop describing it but at the same time he had no words for it. He loved John, utterly and irrevocably.

: :

The meeting was hard and tense; John was by far the youngest officer there at only twenty-five and was generally looked down upon. He found it hard to deal with the other men in the room, if he wasn't his father's son he wouldn't be there despite him being one of the youngest Hauptsturmführer ever promoted and having several valuable points during the tactical meetings.

He wondered if they could tell that he was sleeping with Sherlock.

With another man.

With a Jew.

That his heart wasn't in winning this war.

That he wanted to lose.

He wanted Sherlock to be safe. That was the truth of the matter. But he was so scared that they'd win the war. That Sherlock would never be able to _live. _ Or that the allies would win but they'd be too late and Sherlock would be dead. He didn't care if he died.

Just please God let Sherlock see the end of this war.

Please.

: :

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**From M and **_**C. **_


	4. I Can Catch The Floating Stars

_I Can Catch The Floating Stars... _

: :

John lay in bed trailing his fingers through Sherlock's hair slowly. The other man's head rested comfortably on his chest.

"I love you, you know?"

Sherlock turned his head to look him in the eye. "I love you too John."

"Forever?"

"Forever."

: :

Sherlock lay on his bed staring up through his vent at the night sky. The stars spread out above him in the slivers of darkness he could see like salt spilt on the black marble work tops in his Mother's kitchen.

He loved the stars; they were beautiful, glowing and constant. They'd been there for as long as he could remember. Not always the same patterns but still there. When he was a little boy he thought he could reach up and catch them, put one in his pocket and take it home to show Mycroft.

He used to want to be a pirate, he spent hours learning how to navigate using the stars. Then he'd realised he couldn't just run away and become a pirate; they weren't the same anymore.

He hated the stars as well. They reminded him of how small he was, how insignificant. They were also free. The one thing he couldn't have but badly wanted, badly needed, freedom.

John was wonderful, beautiful and kind but that didn't make it easy for Sherlock to be cooped up inside and kept there. It had already been six months. Sherlock was going stir-crazy.

He missed hearing the wind in the trees or feeling a breeze caress his skin. He hated not feeling the sun warm his face or the rain soak through his clothes and plaster his hair to his scalp. He knew he was most likely going to have to miss the crunch of autumn leaves under feet or seeing the white snow turn to sludge slowly in the roads.

As much as he hated humanity for their general _stupidity_ he could not help but admire nature's beauty. He missed the outside world so badly it hurt.

But he stayed for John. One slip up would be all it took to condemn himself to death. However John had hidden him in his home and, despite not caring if he lived or died, he could not stand the thought of John dying. Of John not existing in the world, and it being his fault.

: :

John gasped as Sherlock took his earlobe between his teeth and nibbled before releasing it and whispering, "You have to come home to me John."

"Yes. I always will Sherlock."

"I can't live without you." Sherlock sped up his stroking up and down their lengths.

John buried his fingers in Sherlock's curls, tugging his head up so that he could look into his amazing, clear eyes. "You won't have to Sherlock. I promise you that."

Sherlock smiled momentarily and then bent to kiss John bruisingly hard speeding up his strokes until they both came, groaning into each other's mouths. Sherlock did a few more tugs before collapsing onto John's chest.

"Mm..." John gently pushed him off before fetching a damp cloth and cleaning them both up. Just before he could climb back into bed there was a knock at the door. Sherlock's eyes shot open as John stiffened. Quickly the other man got up pecked John on the lips and made his way noiselessly to the hidden door, avoiding the windows.

John got a hold of himself and threw on underwear and trousers before hurrying down the stairs and opening the door with a bit too much force. "What?!" John asked as the door banged off its hinges.

"Uh-You're-um-wanted at the conference room in half an hour, sir!" A scared looking Unterscarführer managed a salute as he stumbled over his words.

"At 1 in the bloody morning?!"

"Y-y-yes sir..."

"Fine, one second, remain here."

John quickly made his way back upstairs and dressed in his uniform hurriedly. He sat on the bed to lace up his boots before making his way back to the front door. "Lead the way Unterscarführer."

"Y-yes sir."

John followed the man back to the car that they'd sent for him and slid in.

Sometimes he hated his job.

: :

**We know it's short but we promise longer chapters are coming your way soon.**

**Also before we forget this story is named for Coming Down by Dear Euphoria, we recommend it, it's a beautiful song.**

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	5. It Was Survival

_It wasn't to make you,  
Stick around,  
It was survival...  
_

: :

John's job began calling him away more and more; whether to the front lines or an emergency meeting.

He hated it.

He knew Sherlock hated it too.

But it was his job; it was what he wanted to do. What he needed to do. It was expected of him, by his peers and his father.

Sherlock never once complained about him leaving after they'd had sex or just in the middle of the night. He never once voiced anything other than worry and concern for John, which he was grateful for. He didn't think he could stand leaving him if his lover begged him not to and that would lead to more problems than it would solve with Sherlock.

: :

Sherlock sat in his room staring at his wall; the one he'd graffitied all over. John's name was the most prominent feature and at the moment that was bugging him like hell.

He'd been sleeping mostly lately; he had nothing else to do except think. Even exercising was hard in this confined space; Sherlock occasionally did sit-ups and press-ups for a couple of hours on and off just so that he _could _sleep.

But that night he'd woken from his dream- he was reluctant to say nightmare; could anything really be worse than some of the aspects of his life? - and now he was afraid to sleep again, so afraid.

So he sat and stared at the wall not daring to sleep again. He told himself it was stupid and foolish of him; just his subconscious dredging up all his fears and worries and turning them against him. His own brain was turning against him under the confines of this room.

He kept telling himself he shouldn't be afraid; there was nothing to be afraid of for God's sake! But...he couldn't help it. It was one of his great fears come to life and it was running amuck through his dreams; tainting everything it came into contact with.

: :

John sat in the trenches his head in his hands. He couldn't help but let his despair consume him for a minute. Twelve soldiers had died that morning from a shell explosion and three more were seriously shell shocked. John had been left to deal with them and it wasn't pretty.

He knew he wasn't meant to still call it shell shock; that term wasn't accepted anymore after all but really that's all it was. He didn't want to dress it up and give it a fancy term like 'battle fatigue' or 'combat fatigue' just because no one wanted to admit that they couldn't cure or really recognize it.

He hated that term though, 'battle fatigue', it was a lie. A clever lie albeit but a lie. You don't truly realize how bone-tired you will be constantly in war; always being on high alert and tense takes its toll on your body.

He stood and went to check on Tobias, one of the men affected. He wanted to help but he realized that there was nothing he could really do.

Tobias lay curled on one of the cots in his make-shift infirmary, clutching at his hair. He was pulling his hair out muttering names under his breath. John didn't ask him anything just very carefully unwrapped the other mans hands from around his remaining strands of hair and took them away from his now bloody scalp.

He left the poor man curled up again knowing he'd have to go back and repeat the action again in the next couple of minutes as he had been doing for half an hour already.

: :

Sherlock stood stock still in the middle of the frozen wasteland; he could tell that the field had once been reduced to churned mud. Poppies were lying dead and rotting on the frozen solid ground covered in silvery red; a stark contrast against their dying reds.

Bodies also littered the ground, frozen stiff. There were so many Sherlock couldn't count them and someone had obviously made an attempt to pile them up but then given up; there were simply too many.

He picked his way through the mine field of bodies knowing what he was here to find but praying he wouldn't.

There was one soldier Sherlock tripped over almost falling onto a pile of bodies before he caught himself. The man's hair had frozen solid sticking up with dried blood that was caked over his face, there was frost covering that too; giving it the same grey sheen as his eyes now were.

It looked like it was a painful death.

Sherlock dry swallowed. It wasn't the dead bodies that concerned him; they fascinated him to be quite honest. No, it was _who _he might find here that was scaring him so much.

He kept moving.

Eventually he found it; someone sitting up. Leaning against a pile of bodies; exhaustion written in every line of his body.

He rushed forwards and embraced him pulling him close. "John! John. John..." The other man's name became a mantra, falling from his lips with him barely conscious of it.

A whimper interrupted him and he pulled back to look at John's face. Something was terribly wrong, awfully wrong. John's face was screwed up in pain and he wasn't looking at Sherlock; he had his eyes clenched shut.

As he pulled away he noticed the blood now staining his shirt, soaking into the white material. He was the one to whimper now as he looked back to John and saw the gaping hole through his chest.

"No! No, no, no!" He sobbed grabbing John by the upper arms desperate to stop the bleeding; to do _something_, _anything _to help.

But John's head lolled back and silver-white frost crept over his skin covering it in a glistening, gossamer shroud.

Sherlock was sobbing as he lurched awake covered in a cold sweat. He pushed himself up panting desperately for air; trying to calm himself.

It wasn't real.

Nothing in that was real.

Please God let it not be real.

: :

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	6. The Vines Grow

_The Vines Grow..._

: :

The trenches were harsh in the winter, to say the least. His fingers shook with cold and quickly turned blue without his gloves on but he'd seen worse on other soldiers not as fortunate as he, whose gloves were full of holes or just non-existent. Their fingers swelled up and turned black and blue. Some men had their skin frozen to their guns and when they tried to let go their skin would peel off with it leaving bloody patches that would become infected. There was too much work for him alone; even twenty doctors would find this hard. And this was only a small section of the army, the part assigned to him, gruelling work.

His life was becoming busier, more entangled, and less time for himself or at home.

He hated it.

But at the same time he loved it; being busy and needed.

Except, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, that the man who needs you most is being left behind when really he gave up his life to be with you. You're risking everything for him and yet you have left him behind.

Only for a short time, only for a short time; he argues back but the voice is silent now having said it's piece. Sometimes he truly hated his mind, the treacherous voices that whispered his truths to him. All the truths he was trying to hide from; it wouldn't let him be.

But only for a short time, he promises.

Only for a short time.

: :

He hated this room; hated it with a passion. There was no _point _to this room! His safety?! No point being safe if you've lost your heart to fear.

And that was just it; he could feel John slipping away from him more and more. He'd just disappear for months off to war and Sherlock was never sure if he'd be coming back or not; if he'd even know if John died. All he'd know would be this _damn _room!

He was so frustrated he could kill someone (in fact he'd planned several ways how to kill Mycroft by now; it was so unfortunate that he'd left the country. In fact if he could only leave this _damn_ room he _could_ kill him, that'd be more fun.)

Knock- pause- knock.

Knock- pause- knock.

Sherlock groaned and stood up, opening the secret door to let the, idiot, Lestrade in.

"How are you doing today, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning away and flopping down back onto the only thing in the room other than the supplies of food and books along with some chalks; his bed. He pressed his face into the pillows not wanting to see this man's kind face. "How do you think I'm bloody doing dummkopf?"

Lestrade sighed, "I am trying to help, Sherlock. Let me."

"No. Go away."

"Sherlock you're being childish."

"Not at all."

"So you don't want this food?"

"What is it?" Sherlock tried to remain sounding disinterested and bored but God how he longed for _hot _food now; living off cold, dried rations for two or more meals a day was tedious.

He could _feel _Greg's grin, boring into his back. "Chicken soup."

Sherlock flipped himself so he was looking up at Greg, who really was holding a steaming bowl of soup and a hunk of bread. "How?"

"A gift from John's farther for looking after Gladstone." Greg laughed.

"Is that the official story for why you're here?" Sherlock actually smiled at how ridiculous that was.

"He _is _John's prized possession Sherlock. We'd all hate for that obese, grumpy bull dog to drop dead because he wasn't being cared for properly. John especially would be absolutely heartbroken to find his nineteenth birthday present from his farther dead and buried when he got home." Lestrade had a surprisingly and totally- un- believably innocent face.

Sherlock couldn't help it; he burst out laughing throwing his head back. Everyone hated Gladstone, even John.

: :

"John, do you actually love me?" Sherlock asked as John held him tight against him, his back to John's chest.

"What?!" John pushed him away from him, pulling further away from Sherlock. "You... you believe I don't love you?"

Sherlock looked down at the bed covers. "A little..." He glanced up at John. "Sorry! It's just you're always gone, always, John!" Sherlock whispered, loudly.

John sighed scrubbing his hand over his face. "I do love you Sherlock. I always have loved you Sherlock, since the moment I bumped into you at that party."

Sherlock looked up, "really?"

"Yes! Always and forever. As long as this war and longer." John tilted Sherlock's face up and leaned forward to kiss him slowly.

When they pulled apart Sherlock looked up at John with wide eyes. "Promise me you won't die in that war."

John swallowed nervously. "I promise."

Sherlock logically knew John had no control over any of this but it made him feel better anyway. "Promise you'll come back to me. Promise me you won't leave me with that idiot Lestrade forever."

"He's not an idiot Sherlock!" John scolded.

"Promise me, John."

"I promise Sherlock."

: :

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	7. I Can Dive Into The Water

_I Can Dive Into The Water..._

: :

Sherlock looked at the men surrounding him calmly; as if in a dream. He languidly registered that they were in uniforms like Lestrade's and were carrying guns. How odd it was then, that they had chosen to pursue Sherlock, a man who was only walking quietly through the streets.

"Sir, you are out after curfew! Do you have a reason and accompanying papers?" The man who appeared to be the leader barked at him.

Sherlock blinked in surprise and held up his hands, palm out, to show he had nothing. His dark trousers and boots had no where to put anything and his grey, loose shirt also had no pockets. "No papers." He croaked.

"Are you a whore?" Shouted one of the men, as if to goad Sherlock or- maybe- just out of interest. But of course that interest wasn't allowed. Goading then.

"He's pretty enough!" Taunted another. "Sell yourself to feed your family do you whore?"

Sherlock wanted to shout at them, to scream and rage. He was now no longer in a sleep-like-state; he was awake and realising how bad things had become. He was faithful to John, always would be. There'd be no one else, but he couldn't shout this at the contemptuous police without giving up John's well guarded secret and all his hard work.

"I have no papers." He repeated, deciding if he played it dumb they might let him go.

"No papers? Well you'll have t-"

"Wait!" Called a voice from further back and, for a second, Sherlock believed it was John; come to save him. "I recognise him."

Oh God, Sherlock panicked. Not John, oh not his sweet soldier. No, John was still asleep at home, how he'd left him. He wouldn't even know.

"I think that could be... Holmes. His last name is Holmes I'm sure." A stocky man pushed his way forward then took hold of one of Sherlock's arms staring up at him.

"Holmes? That big Jewsih family that just disappeared?"

"Yeah. It's one of them." The stocky man sneared up at Sherlock.

"Maybe he can tell us where the others are?"

"How did they escape?"

"Where were you hiding?"

"Shut it! All of you!" Shouted the leader- a tall man with cropped black hair. "An officer lives round here, doesn't he? A high ranking one, close to the Führer?"

"Yeah, Watson! My mate knows him! He lives just down there!" A policeman piped up.

Oh God, not John. Please, don't involve John, please don't break his heart.

"Well, why don't we get him to settle this? He'll recognise a Holmes; they would've moved in the same circles before the Führer."

"That's brilliant, Sir!" The same officer as before spoke up. "Shall I lead the way?"

"Thank you, Anderson."

The stocky man kept hold of his arm dragging him along with him following the man with dark hair who- in Sherlock's opinion- looked like a frog and should burn in hell, if it existed.

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